


It's All Worthwhile

by DoreyG



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Pokemon Fusion, Brief mentions of racism, Canon Character of Color, Canon Disabled Character, Floofy piplups everywhere, M/M, Pokemon fusion, brief mentions of homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:53:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2043312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It says a lot, really, that the Enterprise is the first ship where he hasn't had to tolerate such opinions every single day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All Worthwhile

People always seem taken aback when they discover that he has a Piplup.

"Is that sensible?" They ask with worried faces, slowly edging away from him like he's just started cackling and proclaiming himself king of the universe, "I mean... A water type, around so much specialist equipment?"

"Are you sure that's wise?" Or they probe, standing at a safe distance and wearing expressions so dubious that he could probably pick up on them even without his VISOR, "I understand loyalty to your Pokemon, Lieutenant, but considering the risk of explosions..."

"Are you _insane_?!" ...Or, in a rather memorable incident, actually start _yelling_ \- and flailing, and going red in a way that would’ve been amusing if his head hadn’t already been starting to ache, "A water type? A _water_ type?!"

...It says a lot, really, that the Enterprise is the first ship where he hasn't had to tolerate such opinions every single day.

 

\--

 

"It's really not an issue, Mr La Forge," the Captain sighs when he happens to raise the point with him, after that particular incident with the yelling and the flailing and the reddening and the `hyperventilating, "you have control over her, yes?"

"If by control you mean a certain amount of mutual respect-" he starts hotly, and then moderates himself as Picard's lips start twitching around the edges "...Yes, sir. I would never allow her near such important equipment if I didn't. To be honest, I would never have brought her on this mission if I didn't. And, beyond that-"

He stops himself quickly, becoming aware of the actual smile resting upon Picard's lips and feeling a certain flush of cultivated embarrassment at it. The Captain doesn't want to hear this, the Captain doesn't care about this at all. He should probably just get back to his duties and stop being so troublesome...

"Mr La Forge?" ...Or not. As, to his surprise, Picard just keeps smiling almost fondly at him. Waits for the end of his sentence like the hanging words actually fascinate him.

It's why he's a great captain, after all. He heats a little and finishes his sentence in as close to a audible mumble as he can manage "...I wouldn't have picked her in the first place if I hadn't sensed that we could have that sort of bond someday, sir."

And by Picard's smile, warm and genuine, he senses that the man _truly_ gets it (It makes sense, after all - the bond that he has with his Delphox is famed throughout Starfleet), "dismissed, Lieutenant La Forge. I'm satisfied that this vessel is in the safest hands possible."

 

\--

 

It's not like his Piplup is the only Pokemon he's lucky enough to own.

He's had his Magnezone for as long as he can remember, to the point where he isn't quite sure where he originally got it from. He _thinks_ that it was a gift from an aunt when he was a kid, when she returned from a tour of duty and discovered that her new nephew had been born blind, but for all he knows it just followed him home one day and decided to stick around.

He doesn't really mind, to be honest. He's always been a strong believer in the fact that it doesn't matter where anybody(/thing) came from, it only matters what they're doing now. And his Magnezone is doing pretty good work now, if he does say so himself. Pretty damn good work.

(He tends to let it out at night, let its soft background buzz lull him to peaceful sleep. Most of his partners haven't understood the urge, but it's nice to feel that he's not alone in the world.)

 

\--

 

"You're angry," Troi murmurs as she greets him at the door, guiding him into the room with a soft smile and a soothing hand on his arm. He's organized this appointment himself, accepted the necessity of channelling his feelings in a productive manner as opposed to stamping around the engine room all day and terrifying poor ensigns. 

(He understands necessity, even if some people seem to think that he understands nothing. He understands necessity _very_ well.)

He doesn't answer at first, still trying to moderate his emotions into something a little more productive than screaming rage. Slowly sinks down into a chair instead, takes deep breath after deep breath and spreads his hands slowly across his thighs.

Troi, bless her, immediately understands. Offers him a soothing smile as she slides into the chair opposite, waits a vital minute or so before gently opening her mouth "...May I ask what's wrong?"

He breathes slowly through his nose. In, out. In, out. The same method of breathing he was taught as a child, when some particular teachers (and children, but you can't really do anything but gently correct the flaws of those under ten in his experience) would notice the VISOR across his eyes and immediately start treating him differently because of it "...You know the Visitors from the Federation?"

"The ones who left this morning?"

"Yep," more deep breathing, more deep breathing - he thinks that it's starting to work, he feels less like there's a ball of blades where his lungs should be, "they visited engineering just before they left, their final stop on the ship. I was working on a few repairs, just little things that it was easier to do when we were pretty much stationary, and-"

Troi waits his silence out, patiently. Only prompts him after another minute goes by, after he becomes a little _too_ focused on forcing the feeling of blades within him down "...And?"

"Magnezone was out of its ball, to help me with the slightly fiddlier bits of the job," as a result, the confession comes out of him in a slightly startled puff - spluttering out of his mouth before he can even think to frame it in a less offended tone, "one of the party, an ensign Hjax I believe, expressed that it was ‘creepy’. And... None of her superiors corrected her, or scolded her for her conduct."

Troi remains silent for a long moment. Her eyes narrowing, her expression thoughtful.

"...Am I-?"

"No," Troi interrupts him, quiet and sure, and smiles her usual reassuring smile as he starts up in confusion, "On my first day at the academy I let Shannara out of her ball, to assist me in carrying several items to my new quarters. A passing boy from the year above me, I cannot quite recall his name now, saw fit to point at us together and make a somewhat offensive comment."

He recalls Shannara, a cheerful Reuniclus who holds the title of the most helpful Pokemon that he's ever met, and frowns a little at the thought of somebody insulting her. Allows Troi to see it, because she's going to sense it anyway and he's always believed in honesty as the best policy "...And what did you do? How did you react?"

"I punched him right in the nose," Troi admits, without a flicker of regret, and laughs as his expression of shock grows and intensifies, "I was cautioned for it, but he was cautioned for his prejudice and so it all turned out alright in the end."

He stares at her, so blankly that he's pretty sure that it'd rival even Data's blankest expressions. He's... Not quite sure how he should respond. He wants to applaud, but he probably should disapprove. He wants to smile, but there's also the urge to frown. He wants-

"I would not recommend that path of action," but Troi is speaking again. And so, instead of darting between disparate options, he focuses in on her again - listens to her soft words and tries to divine meaning, "but I tell you this story because I think it important to affirm something in your mind: it is totally reasonable to be angry about such things, and you are allowed to be so. Rage is natural when somebody insults you in such a way, and can even be healthy if expressed in the correct ways and through the correct avenues."

He considers this for a long second, thoughtfully.

"...Thanks. I'll have to think about that."

"Glad to help," Troi says, and smiles so brightly that he feels a little more alright with the world already.

\--

He knows that he's hardly the first line of defence in the inevitable case of an attack, but he also knows that space is a hella weird place and so it's best to be eternally prepared. He has plans, he has strategies, he has determination.

...Now, it's only a matter of getting the _skills_ to back it.

He never owned a Fighting Pokemon before their slightly disastrous visit to Omicron Theta, but when he found a pair of Tyrogue cowering forgotten in a corner he just couldn't help himself. He gently removed the smaller one, after Worf had effortlessly captured his somewhat bigger brother, and took it back to the Enterprise. Fed him up and took care of his more obvious wounds, and then was somewhat surprised (if pleased) upon waking up one morning to find that he'd let himself into one of his spare Pokeballs in the middle of the night and seemed rather disinclined to be released.

He trains a lot less than he should, being Chief Engineer of a ship this size is a lot of work, but his Tyrogue doesn't seem to mind. Just chirps happily when he's let out of his Pokeball, runs over to give his legs a big hug... And then actually _bounces_ when he sees where they are, spins around in happy circles and acts like the kid he still is.

"Aw," he says, before he can stop himself - and then hides his smile behind his hand as his Tyrogue pauses in his bouncing and gives him an inevitable glare "...Sorry. Wanna get started?"

The answer is, of course, yes.

 

\--

 

He's so caught up in training, his little Tyrogue is getting stronger every time he's let out of his ball and he's trying to come to terms with the fact that his little guy soon isn't going to be so little anymore, that he doesn't notice Worf's presence until he's about done.

...And sweaty.

And probably looking like he's about to fall over at any moment.

Tyrogue gives a little shout of joy at the sight of his brother, standing casually by Worf's side, and sprints over as fast as his little legs can carry him. He follows, a touch cautious since Worf's a lot better about training than he is and so Tyrogue's stocky big brother is now a long-legged Hitmonlee...

But he shouldn't have worried, the bonds of brotherhood are a lot stronger than even evolution. Worf's Hitmonlee remains cool until his Tyrogue is about four steps away - and then gives a visible sigh, shakes his head and bends awkwardly down to greet his little brother as best he can. The initial impact almost knocks him off his feet, but Worf really _has_ trained him well and so he only slides an inch back with his brother in his arms.

Done, sweaty, looking like he's about to fall over at any moment and smiling like a fool. Impressive, "Worf."

"Geordi," but, then, he's pretty much resigned himself to the fact that he's never really going to look impressive in Worf's eyes. The most he can hope for is a vaguely grudging respect, perhaps with some awkward affection mixed in if he's lucky.

A long moment ticks by, as he reminds himself of this.

...And so imagine his surprise when Worf very slowly inclines his head, gives as close to a smile as he's ever seen him give and mutters a respectful, "you handle exertion well. Mogh's brother must have had a good effect on you."

"Er-" There's so much to unpick in that statement - Worf _nicknames_ his Pokemon? - that his brain automatically shuts down to protect itself. Instead of saying anything intelligent, or even close to insightful, he finds himself murmuring a wide-eyed and gawping, "thanks?"

"Do not mention it," Worf inclines his head even lower for a moment, and then lifts it with slow solemnity. They stare at each other for a long moment before Worf smirks, actually _smirks_ , and glances back to their Pokemon - still hugging and chattering like they've spent years apart "...You are tired, and it would be tactical to rest. With your permission, I can keep an eye on your Tyrogue here as he watches Mogh and my other Pokemon train. I can return him to you as soon as we are done."

...He shoots a slow sideways glance to his Tyrogue. His Tyrogue, though distracted, takes enough time to shoot him a bright smile before returning to his hyper-speed chattering.

"Thanks," he repeats, feeling a bit like an idiot, "I... Appreciate it. Just buzz me if I'm not in my rooms when you're done and I'll come pick him up, okay?"

"Indeed," Worf says, and smiles at him again - a wide smile, that shows most of his teeth and some of his gums.

...He's somewhat glad to flee, after a quick wave to his Tyrogue and a subtle check that he's not hallucinating ( _again_ ).

 

\--

 

People tend to assume that he's helpless just because he was born blind.

No matter that he can, thanks to modern technology, see perfectly fine thank you very much. No matter that, even without the happy intervention of modern technology, he's pretty sure that he'd still be entirely functional as a human being. No matter! He was born blind and so, in the eyes of _some_ people, he must have the general abilities of an infant.

Perhaps that's why he found Worf's compliment so oddly affecting, in its own way.

...Perhaps that's why he finds all of the crew on the Enterprise so oddly affecting, in their own ways. Because not once, not _once_ , have they looked at him with any sort of scorn.

(The second Pokemon he ever received, a year or two after getting his Magnezone, was an Eevee. He'd returned from school, miserable from yet another teacher babying him when they _really_ should've known better, and his father had gone all tight-lipped and quiet before rising to leave the room. The next day, to his surprise, he'd awoken to find an Eevee at the foot of the bed, tiny and frail and a shade of dazzling white that he'd never seen before.

"Now you'll always have somebody who understands you," his father had explained sleepily, when he'd ran into his father’s room and bounced on the bed until he'd woken up, "no matter where you go. Somebody who doesn't see you as only weak, but somebody who sees you as _you_ with all your flaws and perfections intact.”)

"Life is good," he remarks to his lime green Espeon, napping on the couch where he left him before his shift "...Life is very good indeed."

And his Espeon, as strange as it may seem, smiles in reply.

 

\--

 

People tend to assume that Riker’s stupid, just because he’s Riker.

And this, though he's pretty sure that it'd surprise _some_ of the people they come across (probably the same subset of people that seem surprised to meet a walking and talking blind person), is _completely_ inaccurate. Riker isn't the smartest guy he knows, that'd be hard on a ship that contains both Picard _and_ Data, but he is still extremely smart. He's brave, loyal, practical, passionate and... Still somehow an idealist, above all else.

Perhaps that's why they get on so well, both weary of the tarred brush that people keep painting them with even though they really should know better.

Perhaps that's why they both get on so well with the Enterprise, both revelling in the complete lack of tar or brushes or a kind of stupidity far more dangerous than idealism.

(Riker told him, a few months after they'd first met, the story of how _he'd_ been gifted his Azumarill. His mother had died before he'd ever had the chance to know her and her Marill, without an owner, had wasted away soon after. His father, grieving and with no idea of how to raise a child on his own, had desperately sought for some way to remember her - and had settled, eventually, on the somewhat desperate idea of getting his son a little Azurill from a local breeder.

"I grew closer to my Azurill than my father," Riker had recounted, with barely a trace of bitterness in his words - only a strange, sad expression in his eyes as he'd leaned back in his chair and swirled amber liquid around in his glass, "she's always been with me, wherever I go - never seeing me only as an orphan, always seeing me as _me_. She was, and still is to an extent my best friend; but now...")

"Life is good," Riker remarks on the bridge one day, with a wide grin and his Azurill bouncing merrily by his side, "life is _extremely_ good."

And he can only grin in reply.

 

\--

 

Unfortunately the story of how he got his Electabuzz isn't quite so happy.

His mother has often told him that she knew he wanted to be an engineer from before he could actually see - when, as a toddler, he would manage to accurately slot wooden blocks into tiny wooden holes even without guidance. He, himself, remembers first wanting to be an engineer on his tenth birthday - one of the few occasions where all of his family was in the same place and he ended up fixing one of his mother's gadgets, a tiny thing that she used to listen to music in the boring stretches of her shifts.

From that day things progressed logically, just as he likes them to. He progressed from fixing tiny gadgets to medium appliances to big hulking lumps of metal that nobody else seemed able to understand. He fiddled with replicators, altered hover bikes for maximum efficiency, even fixed faults in spaceships when nobody else was looking. He worked, and worked, and worked-

And, by the time he aced his Starfleet entrance exam, he knew _exactly_ where he wanted to go.

By that point he already had his softly peeping Piplup, chosen by him at the start of the academy. And his gently humming Magnezone, his constant companion since before he knew what sight was. And his shining white Eevee, still small but a lot less delicate. But he was dedicated, and at least reasonably smart thank you very much, and so he knew that he needed _more_ \- specialized Pokemon, ones that would actively aid him in his work instead of being simply occasionally helpful. And so he looked in books, and browsed through computers, and asked anybody willing to stop for five seconds about his options...

And decided, eventually, on an Electabuzz. Strong, hardy, great with electricity and not bad in confined spaces either.

He remembers the brightness of the original decision just as keenly as he remembers the stutter of disappointment that came after it, that's what keeps him smiling.

 

\--

 

It's not that he _regrets_ his decision to get an Electabuzz.

Far from it, in fact. Every time he sees his Electabuzz now, shuffling around the engines with a far more serious expression than most of his human colleagues, he feels a sudden surge of pride in his chest. His Electabuzz is not only an excellent addition to the crew, but an excellent addition to his life - and he feels absolutely safe in saying that he has no idea what he'd do without him.

It's just...

He supposes he regrets the sheer bloody mindedness of _people_ , that's all. The close mindedness, the arrogance, the downright stupidity that still makes him want to slowly grind his head against a wall every time he encounters it.

As such, despite pretty much everything, he can immediately empathize with Wesley Crusher when he returns from his trip to gain a Timburr empty handed and with a morose expression; can empathize even more when the boy refuses to answer any questions and locks himself in his room.

"I'm going to kill them," Beverly rages, pacing back and forth in the corridor with her Chansey hurrying worriedly behind her, "actually _kill_ them, with my bare-!"

"Okay," he says soothingly, daring to step into the gap and earning several admiring looks for his bravery, "but maybe let me talk to him first?"

Wesley's door is easy enough to open, he didn't become chief engineer for _nothing_ after all, and he steps into the darkened room carefully and quietly. He spots a huddle on the bed, a grumpy coil of upset teenager, and sighs softly through his nose before gently clearing his throat.

"Go _away_ -!" He's expecting the violence of Wesley's reply, the boy shooting up from the bed with his fists balled and his face red, and waits it out; waits for Wesley to sag a little, cough awkwardly, rub a quick hand over his eyes like he hopes nobody will see or judge "...Er, sorry Lieutenant."

"Apology accepted," he says gently, and takes the few steps required to sink into the comfiest looking chair in the place - rests there for a second, appreciating the step up in furniture that chief engineer gives him anew, and then slowly leans forward and rests his forearms on his thighs, "now, what happened?"

"Nothing," Wesley blurts automatically, and then turns that blotchy shade of red again; looks away, and awkwardly rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment, "I mean... Nothing major. It just didn't work out."

"Okay," he says patiently, and waits Wesley out for a long few moments.

Which works. Because Wesley is a teenager, annoyingly brainy as he might be at times, and he's never met a teenager with the mental fortitude to withstand long and probing silences, "they _laughed_ at me, and- and- _mocked_ me and said that I wasn't big enough to have a Timburr. And then, when I tried to argue with them, they just called me a weed! And laughed at me some more! And- and- _ugh_."

Ah.

He recognizes that dull flash of humiliation well, that sickly feeling that accompanies being judged _not quite good enough_ vividly. It's a familiar, terrible sensation that he hasn't felt properly since he joined the Enterprise, since he stopped regularly frequenting places where people sneered and snickered and thought that insulting him to his face was somehow appropriate in any way.

"It doesn't matter," Wesley is saying, with all the considerable sulkiness that a boy of about seventeen can muster, "I- I don't want a Timburr anyway. They can keep them, I'm fine."

He sighs gently, under his breath.

He leans forward, arms on thighs again, "when I was young, a little older than you but not all of us can be boy geniuses, I went looking for an Electabuzz in a similar place. It was small, and dark and filled with idiots who thought that making fun of those supposedly weaker than themselves was the height of wit. I inquired about getting an Electabuzz from the owner of that establishment, a bit man who had obviously headbutted a steel pole a few times, and do you know what he said?"

The sulkiness has dropped from Wesley's face, to be replaced by an expression of fascination. He leans forward slowly in turn, sitting up on the bed until they're having a proper conversation as opposed to a one-sided rant to a uniformly grey wall "...No?"

"He called me a 'weak little sissy boy' who wasn't worthy of an Electabuzz," he smiles grimly, the man in his memory somehow even more pathetic than he was all those years ago, "he then saw fit to insult my race, my nationality, my sexuality, my disability and my family. In exactly that order."

Wesley is watching him with rapt eyes now. He'd feel special, if... Ah, dammit, he's just going to go the whole hog and feel special. He's worth it.

"I punched him around the time he insulted my mother," he lies smoothly, not really feeling comfortable with telling the truth to _Wesley_ of all people (that he finally snapped when the man dared to reach for his VISOR, an ugly expression twisting his thick face), "and then, when he tried to retaliate, set my team on him and exited the premises. I caught my own Electabuzz when I was briefly posted on Capella IV a few months later, and have never looked back since then."

...Wesley watches rapt for another moment.

But, true to form, the fascination soon fades to confusion and he flops back on his bed. Face all twisted up in thought, brain obviously whirring behind his eyes as he thinks things over, "so... What are you saying?"

"To compress all of that into a brief and legible lesson..." He sighs gently, spreads his palms before him, "don't give up on your dreams just because idiots try to drag you down. You want to be an engineer? You want to own your own Timburr and be respected by everybody you meet? Keep going, and don't let anybody drag you down. Because, in ten years time, they'll still just be braying idiots on a dusty planet in the middle of nowhere; and _you'll_ be literally so far above them that they'll have to squint until their piggy little brains fall out."

Wesley stares at him for a long few seconds, expression blank but eyes still whirring.

"...Well?"

Wesley smiles, slow and tremulous and... _Determined_ , "I see what you mean."

 

\--

 

He got his Luxio for the same reason that he got his Electabuzz: for work.

Or, at the very least, that's the _official_ story. The one that he puts on all the forms and tells nosy looking strangers if they're ever bold enough to ask. "I thought I needed more help around the ship," he says innocently, standing with his hands loosely behind his back and his smirk ruthlessly repressed, "you know, with the engines. Tricky things, those engines, really doesn't hurt to get a second opinion."

Of course, the _truth_ of the matter is that he spotted a Shinx kitten at a market on Selnia Prime, back when he was serving on the USS Hood, and fell in love instantly. It was so tiny, so alone, limping just slightly from a wound to its left back leg and yet... Still mewed happily when it saw him, staggered up to him and rubbed its face against his leg.

She still has the habit of doing that, actually. Although her habit of purring, a purr that sounds a lot like a laugh, when idiotic Federation visitors arrive is something that he worries she picked up from him.

 

\--

 

Beverly has the same story with her Leavanny.

Not exactly the same story, because that would just be creepy and he's not entirely sure that she has the same habit of picking up various strays as he does, but... Roughly the same one. One that makes him smile in sympathy every time he hears her recounting it to one of her patients.

"We met on Arvada III," she'll soothingly say to an unconscious young ensign, having a routine operation to extract a troublesome set of wisdom teeth, "before the disaster, back when she was just a Sewaddle. I was running away from my grandmother, for reasons that I can't quite remember now, and I tripped; when I got back on my feet I found that she was the thing that I'd tripped over, _and_ that she was very annoyed by it. Anyway, she was all on her own and in the middle of nowhere and, in my childlike naiveté, I thought that I _couldn't_ just leave her out there with god knows what. So I somehow managed to shove her in my bag, and _somehow_ managed to get her back home without her destroying everything, and-"

Okay, so perhaps Beverly _does_ have the habit of picking up various strays. Just the same as him.

It's an endearing trait, really.

 

\-- 

 

People always seem somewhat aback when they see him with his team.

Even people on the Enterprise tend to stop and stare if they ever have cause to see them all together... Although it is, admittedly, generally staring of an awed and respectful nature and so he can understand it far better. His team is quite an eclectic bunch, after all, especially when viewed all together.

But, when walking casually down the corridor with his Piplup balancing on top of his Magnezone and his Tyrogue capering around his ankles with his Luxio and his lime green Espeon decorously trailing behind with his Electabuzz in respectful attendance...

Well, he wouldn't change it for the world.

 

\--

 

There is one person, though, who has _never_ stared.

The first time they spent the night together, in the fading afterglow with sweat still shimmering on his arms and Data's surprised laughter still bubbling in his ears, he automatically rolled over to grab the Pokeball of his Magnezone. Only remembered the negative reactions of his previous company when he already had his fingers on the ball and the blood frozen in his veins.

(Dramatic, perhaps, but _accurate_.)

"...Geordi?" Data had asked eventually, propping himself up on one elbow and giving him a curious look, "what's wrong?"

"Er," he'd said, unable to think of anything else.

"Geordi?"

"Um."

" _Geordi_?"

"Don't panic, Data," that tone had, at least, broken through his state of pure indecision. He'd removed his hand from the Pokeball, had turned instead to gently grasp Data's arms and assuage the pure _worry_ that'd been spreading across his face, "It's just... Well. Erm. You see-"

Data had just stared at him, wide eyed and _curious_.

...Oh _goddammit_ , he remembers thinking with a sharp kind of clarity that only seems to occur when Data is in his presence, "I like sleeping with my Magnezone out of its ball. It's a habit that I've ever since childhood, since before I could- Well."

Data had stared for another moment.

"Data-"

"Sounds logical," Data had, as he recalls with just as much sharp clarity, _smiled_ as bright as a star - as bright as a sun, as bright as a supernova, as bright as _himself_ in all his glory and brilliance, "if you are going to quite sensibly indulge, may I imitate your actions?"

And then, at his nod, he'd... Well, he'd opened every single one of his Pokeballs without batting an eyelid. Out came his protective Quilava, his _own_ gently buzzing Magnezone, his quiet Umbreon, his elegant Altaria, his enthusiastic Gible and his cheerful Porygon. All of them gently hovering around the bed, all of them carefully humming them to sleep with Data's head upon his chest and his nose buried in Data's hair.

It's really not an issue, any of it.

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a lighthearted Pokemon crossover and ended up as a long rant on the subject of "PLEASE STOP TREATING DISABLED PEOPLE LIKE DELICATE LITTLE BABIES WE ARE GETTING QUITE ANNOYED ABOUT IT."
> 
> ...Oops?


End file.
